As the skeleton arrived at the end of the staircase, it first saw another set of stairs sectioned off by a furred divider line. The arrow pointed away from it towards the doorway, leading the skeleton to disregard it.
The same ramshackle buildings were all a bit more elevated in quality, structure-wise. Yet this place was even worse than the last if you were an average person.
Duster's Brink reeked of guts, blood, and booze. As such, it wasn't shocking that all three of these things lined the floors and walls. The graffiti was much more intense, reaching surreal heights as several undead carried ladders and spray cans.
Almost every single person on this floor was a Participant, and more than 80% of them were cold-blooded killers. The reason for this? CCW-Stemmer decreed it, needing middlemen to help get his hands dirty.
He was a man of the Justiciar alignment, which prohibited him from committing atrocities—lest he lose his status. Gaining an alignment wasn't easy, as it provided unfair advantages that would scale with those who entered that said alignment.
So it wasn't a surprise that the ambitious man had to get creative when it came to getting what he wanted. The pursuit of power was something that drove many, and Stemmer was no different. Unwilling to sacrifice what he had, he commissioned a system of killers.
On the third floor, the Cradle's Outer Rim, the highest of assassins and their groups handed down jobs to the middling butchers of Duster's Brink.
It was a certain sensitive assassin that fetched for the summoning of the unknown Participant on the first level of Swillberg, intrigued at the amateurish yet deepened wounds it observed on the revitalized goons that the Reaper Kiva dropped off back at the Breather Crypt in the area.
This assassin was known as Hoara, and she had a very specific mission to give to this summoned skeleton.
Her personal henchman, WantaDollah, was waiting for the cloaked little figure. Walking from behind a wall bent at an oblique angle, his meaty fingers crunched the pitiful metal as he walked.
A gaunt face and average height, with hair shaven to a quarter of an inch. Stony eyes and odd scars marked his face, and he wore leather armor laced with boorish bristles.
"You. What's your name."
The skeleton stopped as WantaDollah pointed at him with its meaty hook of a finger. Then, turning its head to the side uninterestedly, it decided to follow the arrow pointing in a direction off into the left.
A smaller arrow appeared, pointing at the man.
"Ha. You think you're mysterious, punk? Fine. No name, then you must prove your strength."
WantaDollah cracked his knuckles as he took on a wide stance, his arms even wider. Squelching noises attracted the skeleton's attention, the man rapidly approaching it!
Yet the man looked somewhat slow in its eyes.
It stepped aside and shadowed the man as it flailed with a wild grab. The skeleton peered through the mask as its empty sockets suffused mist, a subtle itch welling up within its bones.
The exchange continued as such, the skeleton barely being able to avoid the bear of a man with oddly limber movements. It was impossible to evade the man forever since he took up too much space.
Like the jaws of a snake, the man clenched around the light frame of the small skeleton, raising it in the air with a triumphant grin!
Fwooo-
WantaDollah arched its back rearwards as he performed a mighty suplex.
The air crunched as a misted glimmer streamed out of his body, the target in his grasp aimed straight for the floor.
The skeleton was a mere passenger being transited along, it feeling a sense of jeopardy yet no hurry. Then, with a hazy shine, its fingers stood apart from its blurring form, and the sound of boot against flesh bounced off the rusty walls!
Repositioning in midair, it lithely twisted about in the hold and escaped! Red droplets drew lines in the air as its gloves slipped away, revealing a bony hand on the right and a paper-wrapped hand on the left.
That one strike was enough to shave some health off of the wrestler, who responded in turn. Landing on his back, he quickly rolled up and stood on his feet.
"Good enough."
That was all WantaDollah said before he turned heel, beckoning the skeleton to follow.
....
They arrived in a seedy-looking bar, high counters lining every single wall. A vampire's thrall stood at the counter, proffering drinks to those that had the cash.
The skeleton and the man with a gaunt face sat adjacent to each other, one looking cutely small on the oversized chair and the other looking comically large on the small chair. A vein bulged on WantaDollah's forehead as he mentally fished around in his inventory.
"Gah, that damn bartender Sulla. He thinks he's funny because he got saddled with a mid-tier race…anyways."
The two that were in the center of the bar sat at a misshapen table, and light seeped in through the low windows. A slight radiance shone in WantaDollah's hand as he pulled out a…panel of light?
The skeleton didn't know if that was normal or not but still felt befuddlement just looking at the incongruously serious face WantaDollah was sporting.
"My boss isn't very happy that you just strolled in here, you know? Swillberg isn't a place that just any newbie can enter. So, this is a required qualifying job to lessen your debt."
He gestured at the contents of the panel, his pupils narrowing as he formed a threatening scowl. The hostility in his voice was overshadowed by the clamorous noise of the bar, several dead swirling cocktails in their glassware cups.
"You're a lucky one, you know. My boss thought the way you dispatched those idiots could use some work. There's a reward for your atonement, funny enough. Here, you don't have an option."
A book appeared in WantaDollah's hand as he imposed it at the skeleton.
====•====
Knife Hand Expression Manual
Grade: Passing ~
Level Recommendation: N/A
Type: Consumable
Description: Upon use, confers the skills of the Knife Hand Macabre Art.
====•====
"Be grateful, newbie. Your pitiful little macabre art is nothing special, so something of this caliber is the only thing you can handle."
The red haired thrall polishing a shaker bottle subtly scoffed at that statement, their laugh hidden amidst the hubbub.
The skeleton's movements were droll, strangely tapping against the table with no rhyme or reason. Funnily enough, each sharp tap it made punctuated the man's slurring words.
If one looked at it with keen eyes, they could almost visibly see the skeleton being displeased at the giant man's demeanor. But its glances were a little too listless to determine any specific disgust or distaste.
"…So there are some ants you're going to deal with, since they refused to become miners. The coordinates have been marked on your map, and since you seem like an idiot I'm sure your system will direct you. Boss wants every single person in there dead, dead, and dead."
WantaDollah prodded the skeleton as he got up and walked, leaving it alone in the bar. Before the skeleton could leave, Sulla sauntered over.
The man had devilish looks yet soft, straight red hair tied back into a ponytail. Wearing a grey vest fitted with black skulls, and a pristine white shirt and pair of pants, the only thing that seemed dirty were the bloody stains lining his fine shoes.
"I'm quite sorry you had to deal with that buffoon, sir. Might I offer something to you, as thanks for not causing a ruckus in my humble Clove's Throat?"